In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. She kept her face downcast. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. But—he was cleverer than any of you. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. " "Horrible!" cried Mrs. Mr.
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